It Came To Pass
by theblindtorpedo
Summary: Dystopian future!AU. The Kitguli ghetto is a dirty, dangerous, crime-ridden place. Agents Price and Cunningham are special ops straight from the gleaming echelons of society, assigned to help police the area. Bullets will fly, history will be uncovered, and everyone has secrets.
1. Prologue

Nabalungi Hatimbi fired her first gun when she was ten years old. It was an old weapon, a remnant built decades before the Millennium, but so had everything else within the Third Wall. Importantly, it worked well and she liked it. The gun was a solid, square firearm and her father had been skeptical when she had first brought it home, but after a demonstration using Ghali's baskets as targets he had consented to let her keep it. Her father was nothing if not practical and he knew that no girl could be expected to survive long if she didn't know how to shoot a gun as well as any of the soldiers.

That same gun would be clenched in her hands, nine years later, as she ran haphazardly through the chaotic marketplace, bullets whizzing about her head. The severity of the attack had come as a surprise; this market lay flush against the Wall, the only place where Terrestrials crossed to actively sell to Telestials and was thus well guarded. Most knew that attacking the white vendors was a definite death sentence. Even if you managed to kill a few, the higher ups in Salt Lake City could write it off as provocation and send sentinels of heavily armed police to demolish your entire camp. Whatever advantage the Telestials had in guerilla tactics, the Celestials and Terrestrials could overcome with superior technology and organization. Then who was risking such an attack and why, Nabalungi wondered as she fired a series of shots behind her and skittered around an overturned stall. Suddenly, a dark body stumbled out of the brown dust haze, capturing her attention. It was the body of a young man, blood flowing from the gaping wound in his neck; his mouth hung open, spluttering incoherencies as his red stained hands grasped at the hem of her dress. Arms straight, bang, one shot to the chest and he relinquished his grasp. The body fell, the new wound already seeping red across his shirt.

Nabalungi ran on. She cried. She always cried, but there was no time to save the already dead. She had what she had come for.

THE SONS OF JOSEPH SMITH

FORM #19

REQUEST FOR ADDITIONAL TEAM MEMBERS

DATE: 3/24

Division 9

Mission Title: UGANDA

CURRENT AGENTS

James McKinley (Division Captain)

Christopher Thomas (Lieutenant, Assistant to Captain McKinley)

Brian Church (Field Agent)

Michael Davis (Pilot)

Nicholas Zelder (Weapons Expert)

Clark Michaels (Scout)

Kevin Neeley (Medic and Bioforensics)

Simon Schrader (Communications and Technology)

In the space below please describe reasons for request:

Division 9 currently hosts a talented team of agents all trained in disciplines essential to thorough completion of its missions. All have had adequate experience working in the field, but, despite the efforts of Agent Zelder, the division lacks agents with advanced combat training. This greatly impedes the division's ability to carry out successful assignments. Furthermore, the current designated field agent, Agent Church, has been wounded attempting to recover artifacts of the state. For these reasons, Division 9 humbly requests an addition of two new agents specifically trained for field work. Receiving such individuals would prevent morale lowering measures of splitting companions and allows agents more suited to home base operations to better utilize their talents resulting in a more efficient team dynamic.

Signed,

James McKinley

PRAISE CHRIST


	2. Chapter 1a

Anyone else would have recoiled upon touching the just cooked Poptart, but Agent Thomas believed that the ability to eat Poptarts at the temperature one intended rather than taking chances with all the variables that affected cooling was far superior to having sensitive fingertips. He expertly flipped the pastry onto a plate and reached to place two more in the toaster.

"Don't you think your fellow agents would prefer some other snacks for a change?" Captain McKinley idly asked from where he sat on the common room sofa, perusing a sleek black binder.

"I only wrote {optarts on our order form this week, sir."

"It's okay if it makes him happy. We like them," Agent Zelder said from where he sat on the floor, painstakingly reassembling three different pistols out of a box of pieces, "but where're my boxes of bullets? The armory is really low."

"I'm sick of them!" yelled Agent Schrader before placing his black checker triumphantly at the end of the board, "King me." Agent Michaels obliged, but then, to Agent Schrader's dismay, proceeded to jump four of his pieces.

"Me too!" added Agent Davis from the other end of the couch.

McKinley looked at his companion with concern, not sure if he should chastise the others for questioning Agent Thomas' decisions. After all, he was in charge of resources and if the team couldn't respect him for doing his job, that was a problem. To the others Thomas might look only mildly put off by the comments, but an imperceptible lip tremor signaled that he should intervene before another comment plunged the agent into one of his infamous crying sessions.

"Now, now, we know money is tight," he said, closing the binder, "and if that means we eat Poptarts and have fewer bullets so be it."

"But if we have fewer bullets how are we going to practice?" Agent Zelder asked.

"How do we know when we've practiced enough?"

"You can never have enough practice, Agent Davis, that's why we need lots of bullets!"

"We can't waste them all because you like shooting at paper dummies, we need them for MISSIONS. What if a Telestial gunman caught you by surprise and you had no way to defend yourself, because you used them all!"

"Well, it doesn't matter whether I waste them all or not, because we don't have any," Agent Zelder pouted.

"Agents!" McKinley said forcefully, snapping all heads in the room to attention, "we'll get new bullets and food next week. Be patient. We should all feel good about ourselves that we can make small sacrifices so we could make these lovely welcome decorations for Agent Price and Agent Cunningham."

"THEY WERE YOUR IDEA," everyone else chorused.

"And wasn't it a nice one?"

The other agents looked at each other, unsure of how to react, because, yes, they _were_ actually quite lovely. Over the last week, Division 9 had spent the majority of their time painting a large banner with WELCOME AGENTS PRICE AND CUNNINGHAM! written on it in multicolored paint. These words were surrounded by little paintings courtesy of the individual agents: a Poptart, an angel, a gun, a winged sandal, pink flowers, a pair of binoculars, a frog wearing a labcoat and a stylized version of the SOJS logo. Inflatable paper stars were also hung up in various places around the airbase and for once the entire place was spotless, scrubbed clean under the direction of the infuriatingly kind yet tyrannical duo of McKinley and Thomas. The agents slowly nodded their agreement, some inwardly chastising themselves for their selfishness and pettiness.

But before the scene could return to its previous state of silent contentment the air was disturbed by a staccato beeping from Agent Schrader's wrist. Curious eyes watched as he fiddled with the small screen and various knobs.

Finally, he looked up, a large grin on his face.

"They're here."


	3. Chapter 1b

"What do you think Agent Price?" the glare of the camera lens asked.

There were many words to describe Kevin Price's feelings as the beaten car drove away leaving him and Arnold Cunningham in the Kitguli camp. Appalled, was one. Disillusioned was another. He had been required to watch a video on the Telestials in grade school and had expected crude, but functional houses filled with smiling black people in simple clothing. These were the people, he was taught, who worked diligently at the factory jobs so essential to the comforts of Celestial life. But here men glared at him. Crumbling brick and concrete walls tried to smother them on all sides. Dirt embraced the area like an old friend. The street, more a space between buildings than any motorway, was strewn with garbage: plastic bags, medicine wrappers, needles, broken glass. The air hung heavy and hot. A foul smell of feces and decomposition rose from rusted gutters. Somewhere a baby screamed. A form lay in the closest doorway, moaning, with a battered sign nearby reading TOO SICK TO WORK CAN WATCH CHILDREN.

"It's . . . well, it's different."

"Right you are! These people need our help. That's why the Sons of Joseph Smith exist. We're cooler than the police. Special ops in the shadows. Fighting big criminals. Keeping the peace!" With each phrase Arnold pumped his fist emphatically.

"Yes, the Telestials sure are lucky that the Celestials are kind enough to send us to make sure really bad things don't happen."

"So, how're we gonna start?"

"Maybe we should ask-"

"WATCH OUT!"

Kevin felt the wind knocked out of him as Arnold tackled him to the ground, pushing him out of the line of danger created by a speeding motorcycle.

"Hey you!" yelled Arnold, climbing off of the still disoriented Kevin.

"No need to get mad, Cunninghuh-woah . . ."

The vehicle had already stopped and the two faceless black helmets of its riders were already scrutinizing the two agents. Kevin righted himself and started to collect the strewn pieces of the smashed video camera, only to drop them all as machine guns materialized in the cyclists' hands.

"Your bags," barked one.

"All our equipment's in there!" Kevin hissed, "and I only have one pistol against the two of them!"

"Don't worry, I got this," Arnold whispered and before Kevin could object he had thrown something into the air that exploded in a deafening roar, sending clouds of debris flying in all directions. Kevin had not expected to become reacquainted with the ground so quickly, but diving for cover was an instinctual move in surprise to both the explosion and the sound of the machine guns firing above his head. He sprang back on his feet in seconds, running for the nearest doorway. He grabbed it, swinging his body out of the line of fire. Back pressed against the frame, hands pulled and primed the pistol at his hip, but the motorcycle's engine was roaring, approaching, and dust stung his eyes, blurring his vision._ Dear god, don't let them see me. Don't let them see me._ The shots were in his ears now, but suddenly strong arms grabbed him and pulled him through the doorway and the pistol was ripped from his grip. He fell against the wall, head cracking, unconscious in seconds.

When he opened his eyes again, it was to see a concerned Arnold Cunningham hovering above him.

"Hey buddy!" the agent exclaimed excitedly, "Are you all right!"

"I hurt."

"That's okay, because those guys are gone and we're safe."

Kevin sat up. "How do you know?" he demanded.

"Because I don't want to lose my money."

The new speaker was a middle aged man, standing on the other side of the bed.

"I'm Mafala Hatimbi," he explained, "I've been hired to show you to the others like you."

"They live in an airbase, Agent Price, how cool is that!"

Kevin looked from one to the other, taking some time to process the information.

"You're friendly then?" he eventually asked.

"Yes. Here's your gun back. We only took it to keep you from shooting us."

"Oh thank goodness!" he said, cradling the familiar firearm, "Thanks for saving us. We could have been killed."

"Guess we better get used to it," said Arnold, "Namba Jamba says that kind of thing happens all the time."

"Na-bu-lun-gi," a voice corrected. The source was a girl in the corner, who had been working at a typewriter, but got up and came over to join the two men at Kevin's side. She held out her hand. Kevin shook it.

"This is my daughter. She's been caring for you while you were unconscious."

"Warm cloth and everything. I tried to help, but I wasn't very good . . ."

"That's okay Agent Cunningham, you were fine." She smiled at him and patted his arm, causing him to giggle nervously and stare at his feet like they were the only things left in the world.

"How long was I asleep?" Kevin asked.

"Only a few hours, but it's getting dark, you should head up to the airbase now. Nabulungi will bring you there."

"Our bags . . ."

"Those are gone."

"Don't worry! I bet the other agents will have plenty of stuff for us."

"Okay, but how are we going to get up there?"

"I can fly."

Another man entered the room. He was bigger than everyone else and Kevin could see well defined muscles underneath his sleeveless grey shirt. A pair of smudged goggles were pushed on top of his head.

"Mutumbo's the only one in Kitugli with his own aircraft," Mafala explained, "He pilots, Nabulungi keeps you from getting into any more trouble."

"That's okay. We're trained agents," Kevin said.

"Ahh, Agent Price, we might need her, because, uhm, remember, no equipment? I don't really know how to fight without the guy in my head telling me where all the bad guys are. Or the physical enhancers . . ."

"I'm not paid to protect you," Mutumbo said, crossing his arms.

"Can you get up?" Nabulungi asked.

Kevin shook his head experimentally and blinked a few times. The aching was subsiding.

"Yes, I think so."

"Then come on."

Nabulungi left, pulling Mutumbo with her out the door. Arnold and Kevin made to follow, but Mafala's hands on each of their wrists stopped them.

"I should be more worried for you two. You have no idea what it's like to live within the Third Wall. But that's my daughter, so I'm saying this. Keep her safe. She's all I have left in the world and if either of you lay a hand on her . . . well, guns aren't the only things we Telestials have."

Arnold gulped. Kevin wasn't sure what the threat meant, but he recognized it as a reasonable one that he felt he could easily avoid, so he nodded. Mafala released them and smiled.

"Goodbye."


	4. Chapter 1c

"It's hideous!"

"Hey, hey, calm down Davis!"

"No, no, no, no. My runway, my beautiful runway . . ." A strangled sob escaped the dark haired man's mouth. Agent Schrader couldn't contain his giggle at the melodrama. Davis was inconsolable, his hands clasped around his already long face in comic despair.

"My replacements are here?" Agent Church came into the common room with Dr. Neeley, still in a white lab coat over his uniform, pushing the wheelchair.

"Let's not be _negative, _Agent Church! They're not your replacements," McKinley said, "they're just taking over field work until you get better."

"If I get better," he sighed, "Neeley still doesn't know what that slug did to my nervous system."

"NOW IT'S TOUCHING HER!"

"Agent Church!" yelled Agent Michaels, "Come help us calm your companion!"

Neeley wheeled Agent Church over to where Agent Davis was complaining that his sleek ship and her space had to be occupied by Mutumbo's dirty, battered and scruffy helicopter. McKinley made a vague hand signal and the other agents slunk silently towards the door, away from the three at the window.

"Okay, Schrader, three, two, one, doors open!"

They rushed out onto the runway, the doors snapping shut just after Agent Zelder's heels, successfully maintaining the barrier between Mutumbo and Agent Davis. Thomas and McKinley approached the four waiting, arms wide, golden rings on their sleeves gleaming in the fading light.

"Thank you very much Miss Nabulungi, Mr. Mutumbo," said Agent Thomas, "the Center is paying you, right?"

"Yes," Nabulungi said, sending a smile at Price and Cunningham, "I have to go back to the camp now, but if you need any help I'm always ready."

"Maybe you could join us in our next mission. We could use someone who knows the area. We could even pay you a bit."

"Uhm," Thomas tapped Price on the shoulder, "you really can't do that. The budget-"

"NOW," interrupted McKinley, sweeping in and placing a one hand on Price and Cunningham's shoulder, "let's not bore them with technicalities! Welcome agents. It's so great to have you here; we've heard _so many_ good things about you." He led them to where the other agents were waiting.

"I'm Captain McKinley, head of Division 9, codename Uganda. This is my lieutenant, Agent Thomas." He gestured to the blonde man beside him.

"But they all call me Poptarts, because I love them so much," he said sheepishly.

"Agents Michaels, Schrader, Zelder," McKinley introduced and the corresponding Agents saluted, Zelder with his pistol. "And over there we have Agents Church, Davis and Neeley." Davis still looked pouty, but he waved grudgingly along with his companion and the doctor.

"Wow, that's a lot to remember!" Kevin grinned. The agents laughed good naturedly.

"Goodbye then!" called Nabulungi from where she was climbing into the seat next to Mutumbo.

"Goodbye!"

"Bye!"

"See you!"

The helicopter's blades began to whir and eventually it took off and sailed into the purple sky. Agent Schrader pressed a button on his wrist band and the doors opened to let the throng into the common room.

"You must be exhausted from your trip," McKinley said, "and your uniforms are a mess!"

"Well, we ran into a little trouble on the way here."

"Yeah, we lost all our stuff."

A look of horror crossed McKinley's face and he pressed his palm to his chest.

"Do you hear that? They need our help more than we anticipated! Agent Zelder?"

"I already have five weapons already in mind."

"Agent Thomas?"

"Their measurements are in the files. We can start sewing their new uniforms tonight!"

"Agent Schrader?"

"Night time vision goggles! Tracking chips! Oh, what about wrist bands that shoot poison darts?"

"Okay, the rest of you can do what you normally do, but be prepared to present for Prep Day tomorrow. Dismissed!"

The agents scattered. "Follow me," McKinley said, leading them down the hallway to the right. Three doors down, he stopped and opened it to a reveal a plain grey room with two beds, covered in pristine white sheets and brown blankets, a wooden dresser, a sink and a small window. A book of Mormon lay on the bedside table.

"Check this out! We get to sleep right next to each other!" exclaimed Cunningham jumping on to the first bed.

"Get settled in. Lights out at 10 and we wake up promptly at 6:30. We're really looking forward to working with you."

"So are we!" McKinley grinned at Cunningham's exuberance.

"We're glad you're here," he said closing the door, "Sleep well."

That night McKinley lay staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep.

"Chris?"

Agent Thomas had been in a light doze, but his eyes flew open at his name. Technically, they were forbidden to use Christian names, but most of the agents addressed their companions informally in private.

"What do you think of the new recruits?"

A pause.

"They look good. We need them so it's good they're here."

"What do you think happened to Church?"

"I don't know. Ask him. Ask Neeley."

"I'm scared."

Thomas rolled over to stare at his companion, unsure of how to help his friend.

"Chris, am I abusing my power as captain? I'm trying to do what's right."

Thomas reached out his hand and patted McKinley's shoulder.

"I know."

"Did you type up the new mission reports?"

"Yes."

"With the usual lie?'

". . . yes."

"Good."

"Promise once you get what you're looking for I won't have to lie for you anymore."

"I promise."

"Goodnight Chris."

"Goodnight."


	5. Chapter 2a

The explosion was not a loud one. Instead, the small clip Arnold had placed in the keyhole fizzled quietly, emitting small blue sparks. The lock fell within seconds and Arnold caught it as Kevin grabbed the edge of the door with one hand, easing it open cautiously.

After a few seconds, Agent Schrader's voice crackled through their earpieces, "No body heat and no one's shooting at you. Looks clear."

The two agents entered the room, arms relaxing at their sides, but still gripping their weapons.

"What are we looking for again?" Cunningham asked.

Where he stood next to Agent Schrader's chair in the surveillance room, Agent Thomas leaned into the microphone. "Border market attacks. The other Divisions think they are led by the General."

"General who?"

"You didn't read the report I gave you?" Agent Thomas sounded genuinely hurt.

"We had all yesterday to read it," Kevin said derisively.

"I know, I know. It's just . . . no offense, but it's soo BORING. I found lots of other cooler things to do!"

A cough. Thomas saw a pink tint creep into Agent Schrader's cheeks. "I asked him if he wanted to see my vintage collectibles . . ."

"You aren't even supposed to have those!"

"My brother let me-"

Kevin switched the audio off. Fewer distractions. If they had something really important to say, Agent Schrader could override the mute function.

"Listen Agent Cunningham. The General runs the largest Telestial Mafia. They're responsible for murders, mutilations, kidnappings and mass robberies. Agent Michaels was able to identify and track the two guys who attacked us when we got here and they work for the General. His base is in the next camp over. That means under our jurisdiction."

"You sure do know a lot, Agent Price! I'm glad I got to be your companion. You know I prayed to Heavenly Father to we'd get paired together? He really does listen!"

"Is that so?" A split-second grimace flitted across Kevin's face, before it returned to a serious expression. "But don't you think it's a bit strange that this big criminal has been under Division 9 the whole time and they've done nothing to stop him? I read the files, it's not like they tried and failed. They never did anything."

"Well, we're only supposed to do what Mission Control tells us right?"

"Yeah. I guess since he started attacking us the government's getting worried."

"Look at it this way Agent Price, if the others had already stopped the General it wouldn't look so awesome when you do it! Don't forget what you told me: you are AWESOME!"

"I guess you're right."

"Price, Cunningham? Can you hear me?" Agent Thomas' voice interrupted, "you might want to finish the mission by dinner time. I'm making chicken."

But the message fell on deaf ears, for someone had appeared in the doorway arresting the agents' attention.

"Hello," Nabulungi said, "what are you doing in my warehouse?"

"Just watch those tubes and tell me when they start glowing," Dr. Neeley instructed.

Agent Church considered what the swirling green substance would do if he turned up the incubator temperature ten degrees. He'd never do it, of course, but such fantasies were the only exciting thing the life of an infirm offered. The most infuriating aspect was that since the nausea and hallucinations ceased, he could be qualified as perfectly healthy, except for the paralysis. Boredom was killing him. He could be out doing something, anything else. Yesterday, he had been denied his request to help hand out the weekly ration of the AIDS vaccine. Church suspected that Davis and Zelder's polite refusal was not because they thought he couldn't help them, but because Captain McKinley had ordered that he remain on base so Neeley could experiment. This was understandable; of course, McKinley wanted him to get better as soon as possible. Agent Church had lost the Captain position by scoring only a few marks lower than McKinley on his final, and, while he was not bitter, he often dreamed about what he would have done if he had won the position of leader. Couldn't they contact the Mission Hospital? Wouldn't they have something for him? If they didn't, the scientists there were probably much faster than Neeley as analyzing poisons.

"How're the troopers doing?" McKinley flounced into the laboratory, his usual cheery self.

Dr Neeley turned from the monitor where he had been rearranging a three dimensional molecule model.

"No progress, unfortunately."

"I don't want to disturb your important work, but I can I borrow your patient for a moment?"

Neeley nodded and McKinley took the initiative to grab the handles of Church's wheelchair and push him into the nearest room, closing the door gently behind him.

"This is Dr. Neeley and Agent Schrader's room," Agent Church remarked.

"I know that and we'll only be a moment. I need to talk to you in private and these are the only places Agent Schrader doesn't have a camera in."

"He has cameras in the bathrooms then?"

"No, goodness, no. Forgive the exaggeration. Anyways, what I want to know are the details of your mission. Did you find anything?"

_ It was a library, but not in any sense of the word Agent Church was familiar with. Instead of glistening white, body shaped pods that promised to beam the wealth of world knowledge into one's brain if you climbed in, there were books. Papers everywhere, between covers, haphazardly lying across the floor, stuffed into shelves, tacked up against the wall. Yellowed with age, reeking of mildew and mold. Flickering fluorescent lights cast dark shadows against the concrete walls. He could sense one other person between the shelves, a woman, by the soft sound of steps. He followed her, thanking Agent Schrader for the silencing boots. She appeared to understand the chaos around her as she scanned the titles. _Remember the plan_, he told himself, _let her read it. Don't give yourself away. Then take it_. Eventually, after what felt like an hour, but was most likely a few minutes, she stopped and pulled a book from the shelves._

_ "The Sons of Joseph Smith and the Telestial People, 2056-2084: a history of interactions by Nabukenya Hatimbi" Agent Schrader's voice whispered in his ear._

_ "It's the right one," the girl suddenly said. Agent Church tensed. Perhaps she was crazy. Davis was a good scout, but he only collected the most relevant and vital information. Something so personal would pass right over his head._

_ "You see me?" Another question, but this time the girl was fishing in her pockets as she spoke. Church leaned in, watching as she withdrew a small silver stick._

"_Unidentifiable potential weapon!" Agent Schrader hissed, "Other agents, you're on reception. Any clues?"_

_Her forefinger tapped the edge of the device and a flame leapt from the tip enveloping the book. "No!" Agent Church lunged forward, one outstretched hand trying to save the any of the burning pages._

"_Not so fast!" a voice yelled._

_That alien, unaccented voice would be the last thing he heard before he screamed in pain as something hit his leg, driving like fire into the flesh and he collapsed._

"Thank you Agent Church, that was very helpful."

Back in the laboratory, Dr. Neeley pressed the a button once, automatically saving the audio file. He had no doubt that the recording was significant and as McKinley and Church returned through the door, the smile on his face was not forced. He was certain Agent Schrader would appreciate his discovery.


	6. Chapter 2b

"_Your_ warehouse?"

"The building isn't ours. Don't you know that white people like you own everything here? There was a another man with Nabulungi, older by at least ten years, his head recently shaven. Instead of her black fatigues, he wore loose khaki robes, a tattered leather bag in one hand, a gun in the other.

Unmute. "Agent Schrader! Who is this? Why didn't you warn us!"

"Sorry, sorry! Just got a bit carried away! Neeley sent me a message and Poptarts gave me a write up . . ."

"No wonder nothing got done here," Kevin muttered inaudibly.

"That's your backup, Nabulungi and Gotswana!" Agent Thomas said, "She offered, free of charge and first mission and all, thought you could use some help."

"Why do none of you understand that I am a fully trained agent! I can do things on my own!"

"Okay, Mr. Agent," Gotswana said, white teeth flashing superciliously while he clapped a hand on Kevin's shoulder, "I have things to do, so we should get going. What's the plan?"

Kevin jerked, throwing the man's arm away from him and knelt to pull a grey square from his belt and place it upon the floor. Although it looked like a piece of coarse, folded grey paper, upon losing contact with the warmth of Kevin's hand it began to unfurl, becoming a solid, flat sheet. A spiderweb of black lines crawled over the surface, materializing into a schematic diagram.

"This is where we are," he pointed, "and there should be a passageway underground around" he looked up scanning the room, then pointed to an inconspicuous set of ladders leaning against the wall, "there. Under the floor. Those ladders are probably to climb down once you've opened it. We don't know what's down there, but Agent Michaels has seen the general's men bringing crates around here. The number before and the number there should be if those boxes were just moved into the main area don't match. So they must go somewhere else, but where and why?"

"I got this, I got this!" Arnold was at the ladders in an instant, already prying the concrete tiles up with one of the many tools attached to his belt. Once they were suitably loosened, Gotswana helped by hefting them away from the main hole.

"Let me check how deep it is," Nabulungi said, pulling a matchbox from her belt and moving to strike a match.

"No need," Kevin said, proudly displaying his own electronic flare. He applied slight pressure to its base with his thumb and the white orb began to glow yellow. Nabulungi stowed her matches away as he threw it into the gaping hole. It floated downward, hitting the bottom with a dulled thud, blinking a few time times before extinguishing. Kevin judged that the hole was probably not bigger than ten feet deep and promptly jumped down. Nabulungi followed suit. While the two waited for Arnold and Gotswana to climb down the ladder they'd lowered into the hole, Kevin and Nabulungi looked around them. Even in the faint spotlight from aboveground they could see that the room was undeniably white. Something made of glass gleamed at them.

"Do you have any more of those lights?" Nabulungi asked.

"I found a lightswitch!"

The room was flooded with fluorescent light courtesy of a proud Arnold Cunningham. Kevin glared at him and Arnold shrunk back apologetically against the wall, making to switch the light off, until Kevin dismissed him with a wave of his hand.

"Now, since Agent Cunningham's lack of forethought could have us sighted we have to work quickly. We're looking for signs of the latest shipment of AIDS preventative, so anything with the Church's logo or a liquid with the signature mauve tint. We may have to go further in, through those doors, since all the equipment looks like someone left in the middle of doing something. That's suspicious. So we should-what are you two doing?"

During Kevin's speech Nabulungi had crept over to where Arnold slumped to whisper reassuringly to the distraught agent.

"I'm listening," she said, looking up. Arnold sniffed, nodded and stood up.

"This isn't it." Kevin's head whipped around to stare at Gotswana who was running his hand along one of the tables, intently staring at the equipment.

"This isn't the same medicine you and the other agents _graciously_ give us for free so we can survive another day. A variant. They didn't just take the medicine to hoard then sell on the black market," he held up a small vial, "They've changed it. And I can see from what equipment they're using that they're replicating it. And there's another serum here. Something different . . ."

"Gotswana's the local doctor," Nabulungi explained, "he makes all the medicines himself."

"So I know what I am talking about."

"I think we should wait to make such assumptions," Kevin said , politely. He considered takeing some samples for Neeley, but wondered if it would offend the doctor. It was not that he doubted Gotswana's credentials, oh Kevin Price was certain he was a good doctor for easing the pain of slum disease, but he felt more comfortable if a Telestial approved scientist would investigate the strange liquids.

"Arnold." He motioned toward the table. Eagerly awaiting his time to make up for the previous bluff Arnold unzipped his bag and removed several large syringes. He unhooked a tear dropped shape of indeterminable material from his neck line, pressing it to his face to where is latched on to cover his nose and mouth. Kevin did the same.

"Do you have gas protection?" Kevin asked the other members of their party. He could not risk any casualties from what they might release.

"I have a gas mask."

"Put it on."

"All I have is this." The sound was slightly muffled by the blue bandana now wrapped around the bottom half of Nabulungi's face.

Kevin stared at her, incredulous.

"Um, well." What could he say to such lack of equipment? "You should probably close your eyes in case anything we release has blinding properties."

"Your eyes aren't covered."

"Special protective internal synthetic lenses. If you want to help us on any more missions I'd suggest coming up to the base and get fitted with suitable gear. I honestly don't understand how you get anything done with nothing to work with."

"We learn to survive. To react quickly," Gotswana said, "just close your eyes, Nabulungi."

She did and with Gotswana's helmet now securely on, Kevin could once again turn his attention to the table. One gloved hand pulled the mauve liquid forward. He could see why Gotswana was suspicious, the usually translucent purple liquid, was clouded and thick. He tentatively removed the stopped and Arnold plunged in with the syringe, pulling up the whole contents of the test tube. He capped the vial and stored it in the bag. They continued like this three more times, one more of the purple and two of the "different" ones (they appeared exactly the same to him, but he would appease the doctor.) Kevin passed these vials through a codifier, which recorded the color and viscosity of the samples and sent signals to the container of nanobots on his hip so they could imitate expected fluid movement and projectthe correct ratio of primary colors so as to best pass itself off as the same liquid. They covered their tracks by refilling the test tubes with this substitute.

Part one of today's activities was complete. Simple infiltration. Data collection that was more dangerous than that of a Scout. Ample use of technology and caution. All in a day's work for an agent. In fact, Kevin was underwhelmed by his first assignment on the job, although he wouldn't admit it to himself or anyone. Which was probably for the better, considering what McKinley had told them was in store for second part of the day.

"Do you have anything to report?"

Under the table, he nervously fingered the data chip. He would only be following orders if he handed over McKinley and Church's conversation. It was the right thing to do. Neeley thought it was what he wanted to do. Gracious Neeley, who had not spoken a word of protest when his treacherous duties were explained. Loyal Neeley, who went out of his way to collect information like this, so he would look good. Paul would be happy, too. He was confident that it was important, that Paul would want it if he knew it existed, but something kept him back.

"Kevin's been stalling successfully. Captain McKinley's worried, but not suspicious. He's more preoccupied with his own missions, you know, than to start suspecting something else. That's good right?"

"Yes, Thomas' reports have still not indicated any severity to Church's condition other than incapacitated. Without your intelligence he could just have the flu for all we officially know. Thank you. You are very useful. It's good to know the preventative measures are working."

"What happened to the book?"

"It is none of your concern."

". . . "

"We burned it."

"Oh . . . Paul?

"Yes?"

"You'd always tell me the truth?"

"Mormon's don't lie."

"If I asked you something, you'd tell me."

"Perhaps. You must remember your place. I love you, but you are my inferior. You must follow. My love for you can't interfere with the President's plans. You can't know everything. Be happy with doing your job well."

"Yeah, right, okay, I know. I just want to know if you know, since you're like, right hand man to President Cleale, what Captain McKinley is doing? His motivations. Because why would you guys care about us if it wasn't something important? Really important. Is it criminal?"

"I understand. You're confused about loyalty. You have no reason to be worried, McKinley is an exemplary agent and Mormon. The extra mission is his own pet project. He doesn't want to tell us, because he doesn't want us to worry. He does it, because he sees it as his duty to make a difference. This means taking on more missions to make the Telestial territory a better place and he understands that is his prerogative. But we cannot be held accountable for anything that happens or extra resources wasted."

"And Agent Church? You won't help us cure him? Neeley said he knows you can!" A fist slammed the metal table.

"Calm down, please. I'm sorry, but Agent Church will have to stay the way he is. I'm sure he'll manage, he's a competent man, but he must be McKinley's cross to bear. One man sacrificed for the good of many. We don't want to see the tragedy that could result from McKinley's independence, but we have no moral right to stop him, because he acts on noble grounds. McKinley is good hearted, but we hope this might deter him from pursuing these . . . unfavorable leads. And I think I have said too much. I must go now. Good bye. Praise Christ."

"Praise Christ."

Elder Schrader flicked the screen off.

"Mormons don't lie," he muttered, "then why do I feel like everybody lies to me? Everyone wants me to just help them with whatever plans they make and I don't know what's are we really working for?"

A previously mute Dr. Neeley moved forward to pull the other agent's clenched fist to him. He slowly unfurled the thin fingers and removed the chip from within and pocketed it, smiling.

"But, you didn't give it to him, Simon" he said, "I think you've already chosen who."


	7. Chapter 2c

The iron chain was secured, although the bolts were undone. The door was only slightly cracked open, but McKinley's default friendly smile was trying to push its way into the room nonetheless.

"Mr. Hatimbi! My agents were performing their regular duties and I thought I might stop by-"

"This isn't a courtesy call."

The smile dripped off of McKinley's face. He blew out of his nose in defeat.

"No. It's not."

Mafala said nothing, but unhooked the chain and pulled the door inward to let the Captain in. He gestured towards a wooden bench and McKinley sat down upon it primly, drawing his knees close together. This was a good uniform, after all. Mafala had receded into a backroom, but soon returned bearing a steel tray.

"Would you like something to drink?"

"Why thank you." He took a green ceramic cup and raised it to his lips, then stared down at it quizzically. The cup was empty.

"Excuse me Captain," his voice tinkled with a hint of humor, "We don't have much to ourselves, let alone to share, but I thought a little fake hospitality would make you less nervous. Celestials like rituals."

McKinley laughed. "That we do."

"I am glad you feel more comfortable. So tell me why you are here."

McKinley trailed the rim of his cup with elegant fingers, contemplating how to proceed. The grime soon became too much and he looked imploringly at Mafala, who only handed him a napkin whose fibers were ingrained with even more dirt. He declined it and wiped his hands on his pant leg instead. Might as well start getting used to the stuff.

"Is she out?" he eventually asked.

"Yes," Mafala replied. Then with a more hostile tone, "You weren't very subtle about leaking the time your new boys would be on mission."

"She _offered_ to accompany them, free of charge. Lieutenant Thomas will be the first to tell you we don't pass up anything free. Our funds are not as large as you think."

"But you hire two new agents."

"And the budget the Center gives us will be expanded to accommodate them. They weren't requested to antagonize you, you know. Agent Church was wounded on the last mission. He's not badly hurt, just paralyzed, but I thought it necessary that we operate with more precaution."

"And it's about time. You all needed this wave of reality! You come in with your high ideals and don't expect bad to come crashing down? You don't expect it to be hard? If we can't police our own streets what makes the Sons of Joseph Smith think they can do better? Arrogance. You'll soon learn that it's not that easy."

"I know," McKinley said wearily, "you have no idea how well I understand."

"Tell me, _Captain_." McKinley flinched as his title was thrown at him with disdain.

"I came here to do exactly that. Church's mission wasn't exactly procedure. I had him in the Catacombs, looking for your wife's books. Not even my Agents knew what I really had them pursuing. Or why. Except for some . . ." _Oh lord, let_ _Chris forgive me for what I am about to do._ "Mr. Hatimbi, I was looking for the Lost Sons."

Mafala stood abruptly, towering over McKinley.

"You understand I can't give you what I gave him. I don't have sides Captain McKinley and I'll do whatever I have to in order keep my daughter out of this. I have lost enough."

"I need details." he pleaded.

"I can provide those. Old memories, we have plenty to spare."

McKinley looked down at his watch.

"We have a little over two hours until we're both due for Convocation."

"Good enough."

Agent Thomas took his time walking from the surveillance room back to his desk. Distracted eyes stared out the passing windows at the clouds, swollen and dark not with welcome rain, but with pollution from the factories below. He sat down heavily at the steel desk. The large common room was empty and dark; the clouds greedily separated him from his usual companion. He really hated clouds. When the sun shone he could close his eyes and pretend everyone was there with him. They would be happy. Agent Michaels would strip off his shirt and lie on the floor to bask in the heat. McKinley would turn red and mutter something about propriety. Agent Zelder would be next to him on the sofa, drawn into his computer, drafting a new gun of his own invention. Agent Schrader would insist on another game of Monopoly after having won three times already, so Dr Neeley would be the only one to agree to play him. Perhaps the doors would be open and outside Agent Church would sit on the wing tip of the _Moroni_, reciting the newest in his collection of poems dedicated to his girlfriend. Agent Davis would provide criticism, moving his wash cloth around Agent Church, making his ship shine like the wings of its namesake. There were more efficient ways of cleaning her, but sometimes what they did could just be about the joy of doing it rather than efficiency. He would smile at them from behind his computer. On days like that his job didn't seem so tiresome. Not like now. Absence had never felt so tangible, he thought, as he turned wearily to the monitor. Splayed across the computer were the transcriptions of the audio recordings from his last land visit.

. . . not getting any *expletive* better even though I gave him the medicine just like your *expletive* said . . . my goods stolen and you *expletives* only caring about . . . he comes home only once a week and I can see he's been in terrible fights. . . we don't sell those types of guns here, must be getting them from your men on the black market . . .

Each one had been spat at him like he was to blame for the horrors of ghetto life. Still, his heart ached for he knew there was some truth in their accusing stares. He was supposed to be taking notes of anything unusual for future investigations and cataloguing anything that held relevance to their current missions. Anything else would be deleted. The Sons of Joseph Smith did not help the people. They were there to help the community. Don't dwell on it, he told himself. He would have to swallow his discomfort. He had spilled his own insecurities about their work to one person before and McKinley had listened gravely and shared his own fears. They had made a plan and McKinley had taken it upon himself to pursue it, despite the danger. The perpetual state of guilt and anxiety Agent Thomas lived in grew more severe every day. He pressed a fist to his forehead.

"They could be dead right now and I'd never know it. You were good practice, Harper. Now there're two more to worry about." He sighed and looked up at the clouds again, "How's heaven, little sis? Is this dark place where Telestials go when they die? Is heaven separated as well? Perhaps Celestial life is Telestial heaven. If it is, it isn't much of a Heaven. You could still die. You could still be unhappy."

The silence seemed to be agreeing with him.

"I can't just sit here! He went down this time. To see Mafala, he said, but he wouldn't say about what. I have a right to know now. In case . . ." his voice faltered, "in case, he doesn't comes back."

A tentative finger hovered above an inconspicuous icon in the top corner of the screen. The symbol was comprised of two vertical swords, one larger than the other. His sister never voiced her opinion, but his dialogue had served its purpose, to solidify his own resolve. He tapped it. A window grew on the screen. It asked for a password. He knew what it was, McKinley had forbidden him to open the program, but knew that there would be a time when Agent Thomas would have to. His fingers flew across the keys. McKinley would be impressed at how he had committed to memory that string of letters and numbers, but also concerned that he was so prepared. Let no one say Christopher Thomas was never prepared for the worst. PASSWORD ACCEPTED flashed across the screen, then a table of contents.

Collected Letters between James McKinley and Stephen Blade

Official Sons of Joseph Smith Statements Re the "Deaths" of John Blade (2085) and Stephen Blade (2090)

Other Lost Sons

Joseph Amity (2054)

Jacob Ewing (2061)

Gary Wilson (2074)

Robert Pitt (2079)

Thomas Holland (2081)

David Bishop (2083)

Andrew Cook (2088)

Rumor and Mythos Re the Lost Sons

Celestial Stories/Testimony

Terrestial Stories/Testimony

Telestial Stories/Testimony

Official and Enhanced Maps of Telestial Land Comparison

Hatimbi

Nabukenya's Records LOST

Mafala? COLLECTION IN PROGRESS

Other Notes

For Chris

He chose the last one.

"We're not supposed to go off schedule."

"But Agent Price, it's okay, because we totally have a bunch of time before Convocation!"

"Then why are we here?"

"I want you to meet someone," Nabulungi explained.

The agents looked at each other, disappointment mirrored on their faces. They both had had a secret small hope that the pretty girl had guided them into the secluded alleyway for more fun reasons. They both knew it had been a stupid expectation, especially when their partner has been asked along as well. Gotswana had hurried home with his samples as soon as they had surfaced and Kevin was glad they had not been asked to accompany him. Instead, the agents had been lead through the Kitguli camp and now stood in front of a wooden door in an unusually well swept and paved back alley.

"Go on," Nabulungi said, giving Arnold an encouraging push against his back, "she's expecting you."

Arnold stared at the door. If anyone else had made him first in line to meet a stranger he would have protested, but she had asked so nicely . . . and here he would embarrass himself by blabbering or doing the wrong thing. What was he supposed to do anyway, knock? Perhaps there was a . . . his hand reached behind him and grasped Kevin's wrist.

"What is it?" Kevin hissed, trying to jerk his wrist free, but Arnold's iron grasp kept him pinned as Arnold spun around and clutched at the other shoulder, pulling him down to look into his companion's distressed face

"There's no doorbell!" he wailed, "what're we gonna do?"

"Agent Cunningham, get a hold of yourself! Just open the door!" he shouted as he wrestled with his hyperventilating companion.

"Nabulungi, what're you doing bringing this to my doorstep?"

The two froze, looking up in awe and then embarrassment at the woman in the doorway. She was tall and broad. Her handsome features looked put out. The flowered dress she wore did not suit her matronly air. Her eyes demanded answers and Nabulungi at least had the good sense to look sheepish.

"Is Sadako home, Ms. Kalimba?"

"Girl, I'm only the landlord, you think I keep track of where all my residents go? That there's their own business! But I can tell you she left for the market a couple of hours ago."

"Nabulungi! Wait, I'm here!" A female voice bounced off the buildings and its source could be calculated as coming from a bicycle currently bumping dangerously towards them. A baby in a crude basket wailed from underneath the handle bars. She skidded to a halt and the woman dismounted, leaning her vehicle against the wall and scooping her baby into her arms.

"They don't look like much," she said sizing up the two agents with her eyes. She was taller and lighter than Nabulungi and wore an iron red dress, made from a continuous sheet of cloth. It hung to her ankles and wrapped around her breasts, leaving her shoulders bare. Her long curly hair was pulled back, but a few wisps fell about her face.

"Ms. Sadako I presume?" Kevin pushed a now limp Arnold from him, straightened his collar and extended his hand. "Nice to meet you."

She did not answer, but stuffed the still wailing baby into a startled Kevin Price's arms and swept past Kalimba into the house.

"You're going to have to earn her respect," Nabulungi said apologetically, "you'll learn it is not easily given here."

"Jesus Christ, they get softer every year," Kalimba lamented.

Kevin was appalled. "Please don't take our savior's name in vain!"

"I've been saying what I like my whole life Mr. Agent, I'm not going to stop now because it hurts your young ears."

Kevin did not respond, but gritted his teeth. He glared at Arnold, who did not seem perturbed at what had just occurred, but was instead lost in a general state of confusion. He clutched the baby to him and followed everyone else as they filed into the house.

Nabulungi's original plan had been to have the new agents meet Sadako on her own, but Kalimba was a formidable woman whose wishes could not be easily denied. So it was that she sensed an importance to this meeting and it was tacitly relocated to her kitchen. She leaned against the cracked counter, arms folded, while the four sat at a table. Sadako had retrieved her baby and it was currently suckling, a move that Kevin suspected was done more to discomfort him and Arnold than for practical purposes. Arnold was gazing at Nabulungi, a tremor in his arm a signal to his uneasiness with what went on next to him. Kevin searched Sadako's face, pointedly not letting his gaze wander down. Yes, that smirk suggested it was definitely intentional. With one hand she was scratching a message on a piece of paper then slid it across the table for the to read: TURN OFF YOUR COMMUNICATIONS. They obliged, hesitantly, but Kevin left one audio feed on.

"We brought you here, because you are the ones out in the field. You could help us, but you needed to hear our story with your own ears," Nabulungi said.

Kalimba humphed. "We suspect that blond pixie boy doesn't exactly listen when we give him leads. If I weren't a more generous woman I'd say you just throw out pretty much everything we say. Only pretend to listen to look like you care."

"We do care. That's why we're here. To help you."

Sadako's face grew serious. "A month ago my brother Ghali went missing."

"That's terrible!" Kevin could sense that Arnold's input would be nothing more than distracting interjections, and made to put a stopper in his talkative companion.

"Agent Cunningham, why don't you let me do the talking?" he turned back to Sadako, "I'm sorry ma'am, but we get missing reports all the time. We can't follow all of them-"

"Well I'm sure you'll want to follow this one. It might involves your general."

Both agents leaned in earnestly.

"Then you should have reported it to Agent Thomas," Kevin said.

Sadako waved his words away. "You're gonna pay more attention if you get it from my mouth than those computers. Besides here I can be sure you'll hear my story."

"It's important Agent Price, listen to her," Nabulungi said.

"Do people really go missing all the time? Like you could just go home and your Dad would be gone and you'd never know?" Arnold asked her.

"Yes," she said sadly. He couldn't help himself; he grabbed her hand in his pudgy one, trying his hardest to let his sympathy flow into her. It was so warm and beautiful and he felt he should let go, but he didn't want to. She did not pull away.

"There were warning signs," Sadako went on, "He would be out later and later. Then he gave me, a pouch full of money, more than my husband makes in a year. I knew he didn't have a job. I rightly asked him if he stole it, because no brother of mine will be a thief and he said no he earned it. Well doing what? He wouldn't say. Must have been illegal. I yelled at him and he got mad right back. Said we had no right picking where we got our money from. That he was a good man, but knew where he had to stand to make sure his family lived. He left and never came back."

"I see. You definitely have reason to worry, Ms. Sadako."

"If you thought she didn't, Agent Price, well I'd throw the both of you out," Kalimba menaced.

Kevin tried not to appear unnerved. "How does this have to do with the general?"

"He's working for him. Nabulungi saw him at the last market raid. And we found this in a package on our doorstep yesterday. With a note that said if I ever got in trouble to show them it"

She pulled a polished silver gun from underneath her dress, from where the folds had expertly hidden it. Kevin cursed himself for not being more wary. She placed it upon the table.

"This is Celestial made!" he exclaimed, "but how does this prove-"

"There was this too." She handed over a circled pendant. On one side was a black dot, the other a scribbled message: _keep safe, sister, always wear this._

"A single eye, the General's mark," she explained, "The General's mark will keep me safe? From what? Ghali knew I would recognize it immediately, perhaps it is also a call."

The clock on the wall chimed. Sadako and Kevin stood simultaneously.

"I'll see what I can do," he said, "It's time to go. I'm sorry our talk was so short."

"Yes," she agreed, "Get up love birds. We have a meeting to go to."


End file.
